Proving Ground
by draggon-flye
Summary: Tim struggles to find his place after an accident changes life as he knew it.
1. Prologue

**A/N:** This is Not part of my Our Family universe nor is it part of the Future Perfect universe. This is simply the result of a particularly stubborn plot bunny that grabbed on and refused to let go. That being said, it does assume a similar universe where Gibbs routinely uses corporal punishment to discipline his agents, and yes, that will still include Tim even after his injury. If you A.) do not like spanking or B.) are uncomfortable with Tim being punished after he becomes disabled. **Do Not Read This Story.**

**A/N2: **The focus of this story is trying to get back to normal even with a permanent disability. As of this moment, there is no cure for spinal cord injury so if your idea of a satisfying ending is that Tim be 'fixed', **this is not the story for you**. I mean no disrespect; I simply want to make my intentions clear from the start so no one is disappointed.

* * *

It should have been a routine takedown. After all, for once we weren't dealing with a terrorist or arms dealer, just a low-level run-of-the-mill dirtbag, a drug dealer who'd killed a young petty officer who had the misfortune of getting caught in the crossfire of a drug deal gone bad. It should have gone down easy, just bust in, bust the perp, and head home. But if there's one thing I should have learned after all these years, it's that there's no such thing as routine in a job like ours.

It went bad fast, about as bad as bad can get. One minute I was barking commands to my team and kicking in the door and the next we were ducking for cover as the perp showered us all in a hail of bullets. I saw Tim fall in sickening slow-motion clarity. He'd turned aside to duck for cover behind an overturned table when a bullet sliced into his back. For one endless heart-stopping moment, I thought he was dead, and in that instant, I turned and put a bullet in the head of the bastard who shot him. I didn't feel a moment's regret, and I never will.

Dinozzo and I both scrambled across the floor toward McGee. Behind me, I was vaguely aware of Ziva calling for a bus, but my vision was focused on the pale, crumpled body of Tim McGee before me. He was breathing, but it was shallow and clearly labored. He was slipping in and out of consciousness. Dinozzo had taken off his shirt and was pressing it against Tim's lower back, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood there while simultaneously cracking jokes at McGee in a dual effort to keep the younger man awake and to convince us all that the situation wasn't as dire as we all knew it to be.

Damn it, where was that ambulance?

"What the hell are you doing, McGee?" I growled, "Bleeding all over my crime scene."

"Sorry, Boss," Tim gasped, whisper soft.

I tapped the top of his head gently, careful not to jar his neck or back. "Damn it, Tim, haven't I beat that into you yet. Never say you're sorry, it's a…"

"Sign of weakness," all three agents, including McGee, finished.

I glared at them to cover a grin. Then, finally, the medics burst in, shoving us all out of the way and taking over.

The hours and days that followed blur in my memory to a multicolored mass. The frantic race to the hospital, an endless series of waiting rooms and bad coffee, first as Tim had surgery then outside ICU. Abby clinging to my shoulder, alternately crying and bouncing with hope. Tim's mother, by turns crying and raging, mostly at me. Ducky playing liaison between us, the McGee's, and the doctors, trailing back and forth with a series of more and more incomprehensible medical jargon: torn nerves, spinal cord injury, thoracic vertebrae, incomplete T7 injury, partial sensation in the upper right leg but no movement.

It all boiled down to one thing in the end. Tim McGee would live, but he would never walk again.


	2. Chapter 1

"What the hell is the problem?" I asked, for what seemed like the millionth time. "Don't we have eyes in that room yet, Maynard?"

My brand new probationary agent, the latest in the endless string Jen had been foisting off on me in the months since McGee got hurt, looked like he was about to pee his pants.

"I'm t-t-trying, sir," he stammered. "The video's firewalled and encrypted and…"

I tuned him out. I was tired of the excuses and his techno-babble was incomprehensible in any case. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ziva toying with her knife, twirling it loosely between her fingers. Clearly she was getting as impatient as I was. There was a hostage in that room, and we needed eyes and ears in there now.

When I said as much to Maynard, I heard DiNozzo mutter, "What we need is McGee. Probie'd have had us wired into that room an hour ago."

I whirled around to yell at him that we didn't have McGee, but a sudden realization stopped me in my tracks. McGee had been out of rehab for two weeks now. He was still technically on medical leave, but there was absolutely no reason he couldn't come in right now. With that in mind, I bounded up the stairs two at the time and burst into Jen's office.

"Hello to you too," Jethro," she said drily, peering at me over her glasses.

"I want McGee returned to active duty," I told her.

"Agent McGee is on medical leave," she said, as if I didn't know.

"I know that, Jen," I snapped, exasperated, "but he's out of rehab now, and I need him reinstated. Now."

Jen went quiet and gentle then. "Jethro, I know this is hard, but I think we both know Tim's not going to be returning to active duty. I'll keep him on medical leave for as long as I can, but eventually he'll have no choice but to go on permanent disability."

"Like hell he will," I flared. "He doesn't need his legs to use a computer, and if you're willing to lose an agent the likes of Tim McGee because he can't _walk_ then you're an idiot."

That pissed her off. I could see the anger in her face, flushing her cheeks. Her eyes flashed dangerously. Good. Maybe if I pissed her off enough, she'd get her head out of her ass and think.

"That is _enough_, Agent Gibbs," she snapped coolly. "I'm aware of Agent McGee's talents, but there are certain standards a field agent must meet, and as sad and tragic as it is, Agent McGee's present disability makes him unable to meet those standards."

God, the woman was maddening. Did she even realize how completely inane that reasoning was? McGee was paralyzed not helpless. I raked a hand over my head to keep from strangling her. "I don't give a damn about the standards. I've got a Marine wife barricaded in her apartment with her traumatized husband, who is, by all appearances, trapped so far inside the horrors in his own mind that he believes his own wife is an enemy combatant. At least, we think that's what happening. We don't know, and do you know why we don't know, Director?"

Jenny didn't answer, just glared at me.

"We don't know," I went on, the words deathly quiet and so scathing they could've cut glass, "because the goddamned wet-behind-the-ears probie you sent me can't patch me into the room."

"Agent Maynard came highly recommended, Jethro," Jen replied.

"I. Don't. Care." I said slowly through clenched teeth. "I need McGee, and I need him now."

"It's not that simple, Jethro," Jenny said, sighing.

"I don't care what hoops you have to jump through, Jen. I need McGee back, and I need him now." I leaned into her space and leveled her with a look. "Unless of course you're prepared to explain to that girl's family that you let her die because you wouldn't put your best agent on the job because he's in a wheelchair."

The look she gave me could have melted lead, but she picked up the phone. "Cynthia, I need Agent McGee temporarily returned to active status, effective immediately."


	3. Chapter 2

Tim McGee sat at his computer, deeply entrenched in his role as Elf Lord, completely oblivious to the outside world until a knock at the door startled him back into this reality. He briefly considered ignoring it. It was probably his mother, and while he loved her dearly and deeply appreciated all the help she'd given him since his injury, her constant worrying and cosseting was driving him slowly insane.

The knock came again, banging now. "Open the door, McGee."

Tim's head popped up. Gibbs? What was Gibbs doing here? Not that Gibbs was any stranger to his apartment. In fact, Boss had been hanging around fairly regularly since he got out of the hospital, but that didn't explain why Gibbs would suddenly show up unexpectedly in the middle of the afternoon on a work day.

"Damn it, McGee," Gibbs barked. "Don't make me break down this door."

The instinct to obey had him crossing the floor and opening the door without a thought. Gibbs pushed his way in. He raked his eyes over McGee, and Tim was suddenly mortified to realize he was dressed only in boxers and a t-shirt and must look all of ten years old.

"Get dressed," Gibbs ordered. "We've got a case."

Tim stared, utterly stunned. "Um, Boss…" he stammered, gesturing wordlessly toward his wheelchair and bare, immobile legs.

Gibbs swiped a hand over his face. Christ, did he really have to go over this again? "And?" he said blandly. "Don't need your legs to handle getting me eyes and ears on a hostage, do you?"

Tim didn't answer, just continued to stare blankly. The idea that he was still useful, even needed, on Gibbs' team was clearly one that had never occurred to him before.

Well…" Gibbs pressed.

"No, Boss, of course not," Tim replied. He could practically do video surveillance in his sleep.

"Then put some clothes on before I haul you down to the Navy yard in your skivvies," Gibbs snapped. "I've got a hostage situation that's going to hell in a hand basket."

"The Director said I was on medical leave until further notice," Tim said weakly, still trying to wrap his head around this rapid turn of events.

"I am further notice!" Gibbs bellowed, dropping a file folder containing Jenny's order into Tim's lap. "Now get your ass in gear."

"On it, Boss," McGee said, pushing himself into his bedroom. He grinned inwardly at the familiar phrase that sprang up unbidden. They were words he'd never thought he'd say again, and he found he really liked saying them. He paused in the doorway, glancing worriedly back at Gibbs. "Ummm, this isn't exactly a quick process for me anymore."

"Well…" Gibbs drawled, "yakking at me's not gonna make it any faster, is it?"

The words held little bite, but no pity either, much to Tim's amazement. Gibbs, the most impatient person he knew, was also the only one neither pushing him nor tripping over themselves to help him. Gibbs was the only one still being himself. Which, Tim realized suddenly, meant Gibbs was still as good as his word, and he'd better get moving before he found himself sitting in the squad room in his underwear.

"Yell if you need a hand," he heard Gibbs say as he moved into his bedroom and closed the door.

"I've got it, Boss," he called back. Looking around in search of clothes, he realized with an inward groan that all of his work clothes were hanging in the closet. His not-yet-wheelchair-accessible closet. Though his new apartment was supposedly accessible, he'd learned that accessible usually meant he could get in the door and use the bathroom. Supposedly small things like closets were frequently overlooked and just had to be worked around. He moved into the closet as close as he could and used his arms to lift himself up, but the moment he reached out to try to grasp the hanger he realized he couldn't hold his weight on one arm and sat back down hard, gasping from the unaccustomed exertion. He tried again, several times, but only ended up more breathless and frustrated.

He swore vehemently under his breath, feeling absurdly close to tears. Damn but he hated being helpless. He was a trained federal agent, but he couldn't ever reach his own clothes anymore. Why hadn't he gotten the closet fixed anyway? He should have thought of it long before now, not that he'd had to deal with it before now. All the closets at the rehab hospital had been equipped with multiple levels of hanging bars, so as to be easily accessible to all their various patients, and he'd been living in sweats and t-shirts since he'd been home. He'd had no need for anything more since he rarely went further than from his bed to his computer or typewriter. He could have, he supposed. He was pretty much fully self-sufficient at this point, stupid, too-high closet bars notwithstanding, and they'd taught him how to navigate the metro in rehab, but his life had revolved around NCIS. Without it, what was the point?

"You okay in there, McGee?" Gibbs called from the other side of the door, drawing him out of his thoughts.

"Yeah, Boss," he replied, weighing his options. He could either wear some of the more casual clothes that were within easy reach in his dresser, or he could ask Gibbs to help him. He wasn't particularly comfortable with either option, but he quickly decided that going to work in jeans was far preferable to letting Gibbs see how helpless he really was. Besides, he hadn't had a lot of practice dealing with dress clothes, and he doubted Gibbs' patience would withstand the time it would take him to figure it out.

That decided, he pulled jeans and a polo shirt out of an armoire that he'd converted from an entertainment center to a place to hold clothes after he'd discovered how much easier shelves were to deal with than drawers now. He shed his t-shirt and worked his way into them as quickly as he could. He made a brief attempt to tuck in his shirt, but quickly abandoned it as not worth the effort and pulled on his socks and shoes instead. A quick trip to the head to comb his hair, brush his teeth, and deal with his catheter bag, which was what constituted using the bathroom these days, and he was ready to go.

"Ready, Boss," he told Gibbs, coming back out to the main living area where the older man was waiting.

Gibbs grunted at him, a gesture Tim interpreted as the Gibbs-speak for an affirmative nod, and looked him over. "Grab a jacket," Gibbs told him. "It's cool out."

Tim groaned inwardly, thinking of the jacket hanging in his closet. "I'm ok, Boss," he replied.

"You won't be," Gibbs said, in a tone that made it clear he had no time for this, "just get a damn jacket."

Tim looked down, a blush creeping up from the base of his neck. "I can't reach it," he admitted quietly.

Gibbs stepped around him without a word, took his NCIS windbreaker out of the closet, and dropped it in his lap. "Put that on and let's go."

"Thanks, Boss," Tim said, still quiet and very sheepish.

Gibbs, who had been moving toward the door, stopped in his tracks and turned back. "Oh, for crying out loud, McGee, how many times have you helped a short woman retrieve something from a high shelf?"

Tim gave him a puzzled look. "I don't know. A Lot. Used to do it all the time…before."

"Ever think anything of it?" Gibbs asked. "Pity those poor helpless women who can't even buy groceries on their own?"

"Of course not!" Tim said, indignant both at Gibbs words and tone. "It's not that big a deal."

Gibbs flicked a pointed look at McGee, taking in both the jacket and the wheelchair. "Neither is this." He strode out the door without waiting for an answer, leaving a dazed Tim trailing in his wake.


	4. Chapter 3

Tim found Gibbs waiting in the parking lot in front of his apartment, leaning against the hood of a dark NCIS issue sedan. As Tim came out and turned to lock the door, Gibbs stood up and frowned. Tim turned to him, lifting an eyebrow in question. Gibbs didn't answer, just looked back and forth between Tim and the car with an uncertain expression. After a moment, Tim realized the problem.

"Don't worry, Boss, I've got this," Tim said. To prove his point, he went over to the passenger side door, spun around so that he was parallel to the door handle, and opened the door. He bit his lip, concentrating hard, reminding himself of all the times he practiced this in rehab, and gripped the door frame to transfer himself into the seat. He did a quick mental three count and shifted himself into the car seat. Gibbs took a step toward him, but to his credit, restrained himself from trying to help. Tim took a moment to catch his breath then caught a handful of his pants legs and lifted his legs over into the car. He took another moment to rest before grabbing the seat cushion out of his chair and tossing it into the back seat. Then, he loosened the mechanism that locked in the left wheel and slid it off its axle, tossing it into the back seat as well. Finally, he gripped the chair by its fabric bottom and pulled upward quickly and firmly, folding the chair together. He looked up at Gibbs, suppressing a grin as he realized the older man's expression had gone from concerned to impressed. Maybe he could still handle himself after all. "You can load it into the back seat or into the trunk," he told Gibbs. "I could get it into the back myself if I had to, but it's probably quicker if you do it." Gibbs nodded, rolling the chair to the back of the car and loading it in the trunk before climbing into the driver's seat himself.

"You handle that thing pretty well," Gibbs said as they raced down the highway toward the Navy yard.

Tim shrugged and blushed. "Thanks, Boss" he murmured quietly. "Tell me about the case."

With that, Gibbs went in the agent mode, rattling off a full and detailed report of the hostage situation with the petty officer with PTSD and his wife. By the time they reached the Navy yard, Tim knew as much about the case as any agent who had been working it for the past few hours. Maybe more, considering he, like the petty officer, had had his own bouts with flashbacks. He wouldn't pretend that his own accident was anything like what this petty officer had been through, but he had been there, and he knew as well as anyone just how important it was to get a handle on the situation as soon as possible. This would be no slow return. He'd have to hit the ground running, fast. People's lives depended on it.

Gibbs whirled into the parking lot so fast Tim wasn't even sure all the car's wheels touched the ground. He pulled into a space and cut the engine, and was unloading Tim's chair almost before Tim had time to realize they had stopped. Tim opened the door. Gibbs was wrestling to unfold the chair. Had it been any other time, Tim might've taken a minute to enjoy amusement at Gibb's struggle, but now wasn't the time for humor. He reached into the back and got the wheel he had taken off. Sliding it into place, he motioned Gibbs out of the way unfolded the chair himself, added the seat cushion, and transferred himself in, painfully aware of just how slow the process was. When he was finally seated, he followed Gibbs into the elevator and up to the squad room.

Heads turned when the elevator dinged, but for long moment, nobody spoke. Then suddenly, Tony called out, "Probie!"

Tim grinned. "Hey, Tony," he replied, making his way over to their team area. "I hear you guys are in need of my computer expertise."

Tony shrugged. "Well, you know, the newbie here just doesn't have the McGeek touch."

For a moment, Tim stared at him, dumbfounded. Had Tony just complimented him? Tony teased him, harassed him, and sometimes, downright bullied him, but he never complimented him. What on earth was going on? Tim sighed then, as another thought occurred to him. Maybe Tony thought it wasn't right to harass the cripple. He shook his head, shaking off the melancholy. There wasn't time to dwell on that now. They had work to do.

He moved toward his desk only to stop abruptly when he realized there was someone else sitting there. He froze in the middle of the squad room, unsure of what to say or do. Tony made the decision for him. He grabbed the back of the chair the young agent was sitting in and rolled him chair and all out of the way without a word. In fact, he snatched the poor kid around with such force that the kid nearly came unseated and hit the floor.

"Move out of the way, Maynard," Tony said abruptly. "Let the Probie work his magic. You've certainly have enough time to try."

The young agent, Maynard, he presumed, nodded, white-faced and shellshocked. Tim flashed him a small smile. He couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for the kid. After all, he'd been the young and nervous geek agent often enough himself. "I don't think we've met," he said quietly, putting out a hand. "Timothy McGee."

Agent Maynard took his hand hesitantly, as if he were afraid he'd break if he touched him. "Derek Maynard," he stuttered. Tim smiled again, trying desperately to put the kid at ease, and then moved around him to his computer. "All right, Agent Maynard, let's get to work. Tell me what you've tried."

After that, it was easy. They were patched in within minutes, using the WebCam on the couple's computer, much as he had the time that Gibbs had been taken hostage by that student with a bomb. The computer had been firewall protected, and had some fairly tight security, for a personal computer, but compared to hacking into the Pentagon, it was child's play. Tim felt a sense of accomplishment the likes of which he hadn't felt since the accident. It was good to feel useful again, to feel needed and not just needy.

But then, Gibbs rolled the team out to take down the suspect, he was alone. He watched, of course, through the feed he'd set up, and he was connected to them via audio, but there wasn't really a lot for him to do, just watch and monitor. He reminded himself that he had done that often enough before. Even as an active field agent, his primary role had been a technological one, and he had spent many days in MTAC or in Abby's lab doing just what he was doing now. That part of his job hadn't changed at all, and was still as useful and needed as it always been. But there was a part of him, deep down, that couldn't forget that there were many days that he'd also been out there with them kicking in the doors and saving the victims, and that part of him couldn't help but want it again.

A tiny voice in his mind, one that suspiciously sounded a lot like his mother, reminded him that it'd been just that sort of kicking down doors mission that had gotten him hurt in the first place. That voice thought he ought to be happy to be able to contribute from here where it was safe and not have to go out on those dangerous missions again. He couldn't argue with the logic of that, and honestly, he was mostly happy just to be working again. But he'd be lying if he let himself believe that there wasn't a part of him that would love to be right out there with them.

Then suddenly, the earwig in his ear crackled to life, and Gibbs gave the all clear call. Both the hostage and the suspect, if you could call him that since he really was just as much a victim of the demons in his head as his wife, were out safe and sound, and his longing fled. The sense of triumph came back and he couldn't help but grin.

By the time the team made it back, he had already typed up his report on his contribution to the resolution of the situation. "Hey, Probie!" Tony called as the team trooped back in. "Way to save the day!"

Tim blushed and shrugged. "It's no different than what I've been doing for years."

"Whatever, Probie," Tony went on, "you still put the new kid to shame."

"Don't be too hard on him, Tony," Tim said. "He's young. He really was trying the best he knew. He just hadn't had to run these operations as much as I have, and he's not used to Gibbs's crazy expectations. I mean, around here, it's perfectly normal for Boss to expect us to do the impossible, but in the real world, people just don't work like that."

Tony grinned. "I guess you have a point. The kid couldn't have known he was signing up for the Marines."

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs barked, striding through the room. "Why aren't you working on that report yet? They pay you to work not chitchat with McGee."

"On it, Boss," Tony replied, spinning around toward his computer.

"Here's my report, Boss," Tim said, passing the folder over to Gibbs. Gibbs took it without comment and tossed it on his desk then continued on his way to see the director.

"Here's my report, Boss," Tony mimicked under his breath in a teasing, high voice. "Of course you have yours, Mcteacher's pet."

Tim shrugged, secretly relieved to be back to the familiar teasing. "I like to be efficient, Tony."

"It's not the speed that counts," Tony said with a wicked grin, "but the quality."

Tim choked, turning a furious shade of scarlet at Tony's double entendre. That made Tony explode with laughter. When Tim caught his breath, he shot Tony a withering look. Tony ignored it. "So Probie," Tony went on, "can you do wheelies with those new wheels of yours there?"

Tim smirked. "Of course I can, Tony" he said, moving into the open space in front of Tony's desk.

"Of course he can, he says," Tony echoed. "Let's see it then, show off."

McGee rolled his eyes, and then shifted his hands on the wheels of his chair and executed a picture-perfect wheelie, lifting the front of his chair off the ground and balancing on the back wheels. "See? Told you I could do it. It's actually an important part of learning how to handle a chair. You need to know how to navigate curbs and stairs," he countered, setting the chair back on the ground.

The hand that impacted the back of his head was sudden and totally unexpected. He yelped before he could stop himself. Tony's nearly identical yelp told him that Boss had gotten him too.

"You're not navigating stairs right now, McGee," Gibbs snapped. "You're goofing off. On my time." While Tim stuttered, Gibbs shifted his stance to glare at Tony. "And you," he told Tony pointedly, "are baiting him." He ignored the resulting protests, and turned back to Tim. "I need whatever background you can find me on PFC Worley," he said. "He's being evaluated at Bethesda right now, but as soon as the docs give the okay, I want to talk to him."

Tim nodded, moving back to his desk. "On it, Boss." He worked for the next several hours, compiling data that might be of some use to Gibbs when he talked to PFC Worley, using Agent Maynard as a sort of assistant, alternately teaching him and using him to run the errands that Tim could no longer do quickly or easily on his own. The bullpen fell into a comfortable sort of rhythm, with everyone busy with their own work. Finally, Gibbs said they could call it a night.

"McGee, you're with me," Gibbs called to Tim.

"I can ride the Metro, Boss," Tim replied. "You don't have to take me home."

"I_ said_ you're with me, McGee," Gibbs repeated. "You can figure out the Metro tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Tim questioned, falling in behind Gibbs.

"Unless you intend to ride with me to work again tomorrow," Gibbs said.

"I'm coming back tomorrow," Tim replied, surprised.

"What part of reinstated to active duty did you misunderstand, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

"But, Boss," Tim countered. "I thought that was just for today. I know I can't be a field agent."

"Acted like one today," Gibbs commented as they got back into his car.

"Well of course I can do stuff like that," Tim replied, "but I can't go into the field that's kind of a necessary part of being a field agent, isn't it?"

"Not all NCIS agents are field agents, McGee," he said.

"I know that," Tim agreed, "but all the major case agents are."

"Not anymore," Gibbs told him.

Tim stared at him, wide-eyed. "But what about going out into the field?"

"That's what I have Maynard for," Gibbs replied.

"The director agreed to that?" Tim asked, shocked.

"She agreed to reinstate you. Beyond that, my team is my business. You know that."

"But, Boss," Tim began.

Gibbs cut him off. "Let me worry about that. You just get your butt in to work tomorrow, understood?"

"Got it, Boss," Tim said and turned to stare out the window in amazement. His life was about to get very interesting.


	5. Chapter 4

By the time Tim made it into the office the next morning, he was already tired, frazzled, and late. Despite the training he'd had in rehab, catching the metro during rush hour on a workday was far more challenging than he had ever anticipated. First, there was the frantic struggle to find the accessible metro entrance, which, for some reason, wasn't always the same as the regular entrance. In fact, the ramp often seemed to be a winding, serpentine maze that started a good half a block away from the regular entrance. And then, after being jostled, elbowed, tripped over and generally mauled by the throng of passengers on the train—including at least three elderly women out shopping who felt the need to coo over him and pat his head—he had to find the exit. Unlike the entrance ramp, exiting required boarding an elevator to street level, which as his current luck would have it, was broken at his regular stop, requiring him to search blindly through the dim, graffiti-covered tunnels, in a panicked search for the nearest working elevator, cursing himself all the while for not taking a taxi. Yes, it would have been more expensive and loading the chair would have been a hassle, but at least he wouldn't have been late.

"Where's McGee?" Gibbs was saying as he exited the elevator into the bullpen area.

"McGee?" Tony asked, confused. "I thought that was just for yesterday."

He rounded the corner just in time to see Gibbs shake his head. "McGee is—"

"Right here," Tim finished, coming up behind him. "Sorry I'm late, Boss. I had a little trouble with the Metro. It won't happen again."

"Dammit, McGee," Gibbs growled, never missing a beat. "Don't—"

"Apologize," Tim finished. "I know, I know… Got it, Boss."

Any reply Gibbs might have been about to make was cut off when Tony burst out. "Probie! You're back!"

Tim nodded, feeling both ridiculously happy and slightly embarrassed by Tony's outburst. "I'm only cleared for limited duty, obviously, but I'm back." Leaning closer to Tony, he added in a stage whisper, "I think the director got tired of Boss scaring the newbies."

"I heard that, McGee," Gibbs called, sending both Tony and Tim scrambling for desks.

The day passed much like the day before, with Tim doing computer and paperwork, and Agent Maynard handling the tasks that he couldn't handle easily himself. It seemed to work well, but a small part of him doubted the arrangement would last. Though he was no expert by any means, he'd been working here long enough to understand the politics that went in to hiring and budgets at agencies like NCIS. Surely at some point someone at some budget meeting would object to hiring two agents to do a job that one able-bodied agent could do, and it would all be over. For now, however, he was mostly just happy to be back. Glad to feel useful again, needed.

Surprisingly, he found himself enjoying the teasing banter with Tony. Granted, Tony was a little milder than usual, leaning more towards playful teasing then the almost bullying hazing he was sometimes given to. A part of Tim worried a little of that. Maybe Tony thought he had to go easy on him now. After all, he couldn't really bully a cripple, could he? As much as Tim welcomed the break, the thought that his disability might be the motivation behind it bothered him. More than anything else, he wanted them to see that he was still him. Still the same man he was before that stray bullet had taken his legs. Determinedly, he shook off the thought. For now, he'd just enjoy this kinder, gentler Tony.

Ziva was a bit more troubling. Though she had always been rather aloof, now it was like he wasn't even there. She seemed to ignore his presence altogether, barely speaking to him unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then, she seemed to look through him rather than at him. It was a common enough reaction, one he was used to by now. He got it all the time, mostly from strangers on the street, but Ziva was, or at least had been, his friend and from her, it hurt.

Abby, now, Abby was... well, Abby was Abby. On one hand, she understood it as much as any of his coworkers did, having grown up in a household with parents with disabilities. She saw him, and not the chair, in a way that no one else, save maybe Gibbs, did. On the other hand, the thought of any of them hurt freaked Abby out, even if it were nothing more than scrapes and bruises, and paralysis was far beyond scrapes and bruises. The few times he had ventured down to her lab -- silently thanking whoever was listening that NCIS had elevators to every floor so that he could still do forensic work with her -- she had alternated between tripping all over herself trying to be sure he was OK and treating him as though he were the same as ever. It was as if she couldn't decide which of her impulses to go with. He could deal with that. He figured it would settle out on its own once she got used to him being around again.

Gibbs finally called it a day at a little after six. It was a ridiculously early hour for Gibbs, but Tim, who had grown accustomed to doing nothing more strenuous every day than a little writing or playing on his computer, was beyond tired and glad for the break. He knew he had to build up his stamina again. These early days would be few and far between, but for now, he'd take it and be glad.

Tony and Ziva were as shocked as he was, but they too made no complaint. They knew better. One word of surprise, and Gibbs would likely be finding something else for them to do that would keep them here well past midnight. Tim thought privately that if either of them even so much as uttered a word, he'd kill them himself, wheelchair notwithstanding.

He was slowly packing his backpack, dreading the trek back to the Metro, when Gibbs called out to him.

"McGee, with me."

Tim looked up, shocked. "I thought you said we were done, Boss."

"We are," Gibbs said in a tone that gave Tim the distinct impression that he would've liked to have rolled his eyes, if he were the eye-rolling kind, which Gibbs, of course, most assuredly was not. "I'm taking you home."

"You don't have to do that, Boss," Tim protested. "I'll be fine on the Metro."

"Not if it takes you as long to get home as it did to get here this morning," Gibbs said. "It will be past dark by the time you get home." Though he didn't say it, his tone made it clear that Tim being out on his own after dark was clearly unacceptable at this point.

Tim fought the urge to roll his own eyes. He expected the mother hen routine from his own mother or even Abby but not from Gibbs, not from the one person he'd thought understood. "I'm a big boy, Boss," he said, trying but not succeeding in keeping the sarcasm out of his voice, "I'm not afraid of the dark. I'm even a federal agent, or was."

"Still are." Gibbs bit the words out in a tone that booked no contradiction. "Unless you think that badge on your belt's a toy." Tim opened his mouth to protest but Gibbs went on before he could. "You're also still getting used to being back, and you're exhausted. You do me no good if you're dead on your feet, and I just thought you might appreciate the ride rather than having to deal with the Metro right now."

Tim blushed and looked away, feeling like a scolded child. "I do. Thanks, Boss."

He didn't expect Gibbs to reply so he wasn't surprised when he didn't, but the sudden hard slap that connected with the back of his head was equally unexpected. "Ow!" he yelped. "What was that for?"

"For being such a damned idiot," Gibbs replied, striding into the elevator and holding the door so Tim could follow behind.

The ride to Tim's apartment was a quiet one. They didn't have a case to fill the silence as they'd had the day before. Gibbs was being usual taciturn self, and Tim was too tired to carry on the conversation on his own. He was suddenly more glad than ever that Gibbs had offered to take him home. He hadn't realized quite how exhausted he was until he was in the car and still. Then, the exhaustion hit him like a brick. And this had been a slow day. How was he ever gonna make it when things got crazy and chaotic again, as they always did? How would he manage when they were there for hours on end, when the case was running hot and they could barely stop to pee let alone go home to sleep? If a slow day hit him like this, could even pretend he would be able to manage that?

Tim sighed heavily, barely stifling a yawn. He caught Gibbs glancing his way and blushed, embarrassed at showing such weakness in front of Gibbs, who barely seemed to need sleep at all.

"You'll get used to it," Gibbs told him matter-of-factly, as if hearing his thoughts. "It's your first day. It will take you some time to get back into the swing of things. You'll pick up the rhythm again in time."

Tim nodded noncommittally. He highly doubted it, but he didn't have the energy to argue with Gibbs either. He was saved from further comment by their arrival at his apartment complex. Gibbs unloaded his chair without comment, having mastered doing so fairly quickly, and busied himself rummaging in the back of car while Tim got out. He got out and settled himself in his chair then turned, feeling somewhat awkward, to say goodbye to Gibbs. To his surprise, rather than moving around the car to climb back in and leave, Gibbs stood behind him, waiting expectantly, with his toolbox sitting on the asphalt at his feet.

"Um, Boss, what are you doing?" Tim stammered.

"Figured I had better fix that closet of yours if I ever want you to get to work on time," Gibbs replied.

"That's OK, Boss," Tim said. "You don't have to do that. I can get maintenance to handle that. I should've done it already, to tell you the truth."

"I know I don't have to, Tim," Gibbs told him, "but I'm going to. I want to. Besides, there's no telling when the maintenance guy will get around to it, and I can't afford to have you getting to work late every day until then. Now go inside. It's getting cool out here."

Years of obedience had him moving toward the door even as he protested. "I can do this, Boss, really. There's no need..."

"What part of I'm doing this did you not understand, McGee? Now unlock the damn door. This toolbox is getting heavy."

Sighing, Tim put the key in the door and pushed inside, muttering as he did about the latest intrusion into his life. It's not that he didn't appreciate Gibbs's help. He did, but that was yet another thing in his life that he couldn't control, and right now that was damned irritating. "Won't let me do anything around here," he grumbled, throwing his keys on to the table with a great deal more force than necessary, "can't even get my own closet fixed. Everybody wants to order me around like a child, even in my own house."

Gibbs sat down his toolbox in the bedroom closet and threw him a sharp look. "That's not my intention, and you know it, but you keep up the temper tantrum, and I won't hesitate to treat you just like the child you're acting like."

Tim stared at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

"Don't act so surprised, Tim," he went on, taking down Tim's clothes and piling them on the bed so he could remove the closet rod. "I don't put up with childish behavior. Not from my people. You know that."

"Yes, Sir," Tim said quietly, nodding. He did know that, but he was also very confused. Before, he'd have been sure this conversation was a veiled threat, or maybe a warning was a better word, that a spanking was imminent if he didn't get it together. But Gibbs couldn't do that anymore. Well, he supposed he could, but considering he could no longer feel his ass, there didn't seem to be much point. After all, wasn't the point of a spanking that it hurt? It wasn't much of a deterrent if he couldn't feel it.

It occurred to him then, amusedly, that he no longer questioned Gibbs's right to discipline him that way, only if he physically could. That was a far cry from the way he'd felt when he'd first joined Gibb's team and learned that the former gunny had an unorthodox and hands-on approach to disciplining his team. Back then, he'd been shocked and downright terrified. He wasn't stupid. He'd grown up in the Navy himself, and had known more than a few gruff, old-school military men in his time; his own father included, but he didn't think anybody still did that, especially not in a civilian agency like NCIS. Over time, he'd come to see that punishing them the way he did was actually Gibbs's way of protecting them. It prevented them from having to endure the more official consequences that could have more long-term effects on their career. And truthfully he'd eventually come to accept that there was more to it than that as well. It was more than protecting them. This team was family. Gibbs was treating them as he would his children. It'd taken him years to realize that and to accept it, but in the past year or so, he'd come to realize the truth of it. Even so, he hadn't a clue what that meant in his present circumstances. Gibbs clearly couldn't punish him that way anymore. So what did he mean?

Suddenly, a horrid thought occurred to him. Maybe Gibbs meant punishing him in a different, but still childlike manner, like sending him to the corner or something. He could still do that. Tim's ears burned scarlet at the thought. That would be awful. Surely Boss wouldn't embarrass him like that. Who was he kidding? The man wouldn't hesitate a second about spanking him like a five-year-old, of course he'd do that.

The scraping and banging that accompanied Gibbs removing the closet rod brought Tim back to the present. Realizing belatedly that he should at least do something to help if nothing more than making coffee, he moved to the kitchen. Scrounging around in a cabinet, he finally came up with the small tin of Gibbs's favorite coffee that he'd taken to keeping around since Gibbs had started visiting him more often. He'd just put the coffee and water into the machine and turned it on when Gibbs called to him.

"McGee, get in here and show me where you need me to position this thing."

Leaving the coffee to brew, he went into his bedroom. Between the two of them, they gradually managed to determine where the appropriate height would be to position the rod so that he could reach his clothes easily without it being so low that the clothes would drag the ground. While Gibbs worked on securing the rod and putting Tim's clothes back, Tim returned to the kitchen and poured them both some coffee.

"There's coffee if you want it, Boss," he said, carefully taking his own cup to the table. There was a time when he would have simply taken the cup to Gibbs, but balancing two cups of hot coffee and maneuvering his wheelchair was far beyond his current level of skill.

Gibbs came out of the bedroom, snagging the cup Tim had left him on the kitchen counter and nodding his thanks before settling back to lean against the counter. "Rod's up, and I've put most of the clothes back, but I'll leave the last few pieces to you."

Tim nodded, both hands wrapped around his own cup. "That's fine, Boss, thanks." Gibbs dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "No, Boss," he repeated, ashamed of his earlier outburst, "I mean it. Thank you."

"Who fixed my VCR, Tim?" Gibbs asked.

"I did," Tim replied.

"And my cell phone?" Gibbs continued.

"Which time?" Tim muttered. Gibbs didn't reply, but the glare he shot Tim convinced the younger man not to press. "I did," Tim answered, "but that's nothing, it's just what I do."

"And this," Gibbs countered, glancing over at where his toolbox sat in the floor, "is what I do." He pushed up off the counter, depositing his cup in the sink. "See you tomorrow, McGee," he said as he headed for the door. "On time."

Tim assured him that he would be and locked the door behind him. Abandoning his coffee, he went to finish hanging his clothes in newly accessible closet, allowing himself to bask in the glow of a fairly successful day and stubbornly ignoring the voice in his head that was sure it wouldn't last.


	6. Chapter 5

Tim hated bombing drills, he decided, hated them with a deep, burning, and abiding passion. He had never liked them, but the hatred was new. Before his accident, they had been little more than a minor annoyance. A necessary evil, even. He hadn't been in DC on September 11, but Norfolk was close enough that he remembered it clearly. He supposed every American did, but having been stationed in Norfolk, on one of the biggest shipping ports in the country, at the time, he'd be willing to bet he remembered it with a greater intensity than the average person on the street. So, he understood the need for the drills. He really did, and before today, they had never really bothered him much. But then, there was this morning.

When the call came, he hadn't thought twice about it. He'd been upstairs in MTAC running a video conference for Gibbs and Tony, who were discussing a possible undercover operation with a commander at Jacksonville Naval Station. The alert came just as the commander ended the call. He'd removed his headset and followed Gibbs and Tony out the door, heading instinctively for the elevator. After a month back, he knew every elevator in the building and could find them without conscious thought.

"Where the hell are you going, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

Tim shot him a confused look. "To the elevator, Boss." He left the 'where else' unspoken, but it hung clearly in the air between them.

"You can't use the elevator during a disaster drill, McGee," Gibbs said.

"What?" He replied, completely confused. Tony pointed to the sign clearly posted by the elevator that echoed what Gibbs had just pointed out. "I know that," he snapped irritably. "I mean, I know the general public is not supposed to use them, but what else am I supposed to do?"

In answer, Gibbs stepped up beside him and motioned Tony around to the other side. "Put your arm around my shoulder, McGee," he directed, kneeling down as Tony followed suit.

Realizing what they were to do, Tim's eyes went wide as saucers. "No way. I mean, really, Boss, you don't have to do that. I'm fine. It's only a drill anyway."

"You don't know that, Tim, and even if that's true, they won't clear the building until everyone is out," Gibbs countered, "and that includes you. You're getting out of this building one-way or another, and before you say it, the elevator is not an option. If there is a bomb, the damn thing is a death trap, and there is no way in hell I'm letting you get in it."

"And if there was a real bomb, I wouldn't argue with you," Tim said, "but it's not. Come on, Boss, you know that. There have been rumors about this drill in the wind for weeks."

"Damned if I'm going to risk your life over scuttlebutt," Gibbs told him. "Now put your arms around our shoulders and let us carry you down."

"Besides, Probie," Tony added, "even if it is a drill, part of the point of a drill is that people need the practice, and since this is the first one we've had since you got your wheels, we need the practice more than usual. After all, we have to practice getting you out of the building, so we know we can do it if there is a real emergency."

As much as Tim could concede the logic of what Tony was saying, his first impulse was to tell him to shut up. In a real emergency, he wouldn't care about embarrassment, but this wasn't a real emergency, and it was horribly embarrassing."Come on, Boss..." he repeated. He could hear himself whine, but quite frankly, he didn't care. He wasn't about to be carried down the stairs like a helpless child.

In reply, Gibbs smacked the back of his head hard and growled, "Now, Timothy."

Tim yelped, flinching hard, and reached back to rub the sore spot on his head. Gibbs raised his hand again, clearly promising more of the same if he wasn't obeyed immediately. Reluctantly, Tim obeyed, hooking one arm around each man's shoulders. They're lifted him slightly, sliding their arms beneath his thighs before carrying him down between them. Tim flushed scarlet. He didn't think he'd ever been more humiliated in his life. Dimly, he heard Gibbs barking at Maynard to get his chair, and he was vaguely aware of Maynard scrambling up the stairs to retrieve it, practically tripping over his own feet as he did.

Luckily, for all Maynard's clumsiness, he made it to the ground floor about the same time they did. Tony and Gibbs deposited Tim back into his chair, and they headed out the main entryway, easily blending into the flow of people exiting the building. For a minute, Tim was relieved. Once again, he was just like everybody else. That is, until the stupid security guard found him.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, coming up to where Gibbs's team had gathered on the sidewalk. "You're going to need to move to the back parking lot. This area isn't far enough away to be designated a safe zone."

"But I can't get to the back parking lot," Tim protested at the same time Gibbs nodded his agreement.

"I'm sorry, sir," the guard replied. "You still need to get as close to it as you can. You can't stay here. It's just not safe."

"We'll get him there," Gibbs assured the man, glaring at Tim and daring him to argue.

It was only the fact that he respected Gibbs tremendously that had Tim holding his tongue. Inside, he was fuming. He had already had to endure being carried down the stairs like a toddler in front of all his coworkers. Now they wanted him to chance breaking his neck trying to make his way down into the back parking lot. How much worse could it get? No, forget that. He didn't want to know.

Even as he fumed, the logical part of Tim agreed that the back parking lot made a logical choice as a place to gather. Carved into a remote area toward the back of the NCIS facility, it was no longer used as a parking lot since it was too far away from the offices and it was considered a safety hazard to walk that far, particularly alone and at night. The roads to it had long since been blocked off, but it still served as an evacuation area. It was shaped like a bowl, with a flat bottom that served as the parking lot and high, arched sides that would serve as great protection in the event of flying debris. The problem was, the same arched sides that made for great cover made it all but impossible to get down into in a wheelchair. He essentially had two choices. He could be carried down the stairs again, a prospect he regarded as only a few steps away from a nightmare, or he could risk life and limb making his way down a narrow, winding, barely there, dirt footpath cut into one of the sides. Neither prospect was appealing, but there was no way in hell he was agreeing to be carried again.

At the same time, he knew that carrying him down the hill into the parking lot was likely to be Gibbs' preferred method of handling the situation. It was quicker and, as Gibbs probably saw it, easier and less hazardous than picking his way down the path, which meant the only chance he had of not being carried again was to somehow distract Gibbs until he can make his way down the path. He paused, racking his brain frantically for some appropriate distraction, when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ducky come up and start talking to Gibbs. He smiled to himself. Maybe fate was working in his favor for once after all.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: Remember the warnings, people. If you read it anyway and don't like it because of something I've warned about, I honestly don't want to know. Don't get me wrong. I am immensely grateful for all my readers and am open to constructive criticism, but complaining about corporal punishment is not constructive. You're entitled to your opinions, just as I am mine, but kindly keep them to yourself.**

**

* * *

**"Ah, Jethro, there you are," Ducky said, coming up behind him and clapping his shoulder congenially. "It's a beautiful day to be outside, isn't it?"

Gibbs glanced upward. He couldn't fault Ducky's observations. It was a beautiful early fall day, the sun shone brightly and the sky was a brilliant, nearly cloudless blue. It would have been a perfect day to be out on the water, fishing or sailing. "Yeah, it is," he agreed, "provided of course this bomb drill doesn't turn out to be real."

"Of course, of course," Ducky replied. "It was never my intention to make light of the situation. It's just that when one spends as much time underground as I do, one learns to appreciate the sunshine."

Gibbs nodded. He understood. Given the nature of what they did, it was something they would all do well to remember, to stop and smell the roses, to remember to appreciate the blue sky on a clear fall day. After all, he knew as well as anyone life could change in an instant. He'd known that for years, since a gunshot and a car crash had simultaneously turned his life upside down, and lately McGee, in the aftermath of the shooting, had brought it all back home again.

As if sensing his thoughts, Ducky asked, "How is Timothy doing these days? He seems to be adapting well."

"He is," Gibbs agreed, "at least for the most part. He tried to stage a mutiny over being carried down the stairs, and he's not very happy that he's going to have to be carried again to get down into the parking lot, but I suppose things like that are to be expected."

"They are," Ducky assured him. "You should know that, Jethro. Surely, as a Marine, you've come into contact with plenty of soldiers who had to adjust to devastating injuries. Why you yourself had to make a similar adjustment after Iraq, except of course in Timothy's case it also involves having to deal with the physical limitations rather than being primarily emotional…" The look Gibbs gave him had him trailing off abruptly. He had more latitude than most anyone else in this particular area, but even he had limits. "What about young Derek? How is he working out?"

"Who?" Gibbs said blankly.

"Agent Maynard," Ducky explained.

"Oh, he's fine. He's very young and very eager," Gibbs laughed lightly. "He thinks the sun rises and sets on Tim McGee, and he's terrified of me."

Ducky laughed. "They're all terrified of you at first, Jethro. In fact, I don't think Mr. Palmer has quite gotten over that yet."

Gibbs grinned. "Good."

Ducky shook his head, bemused, but didn't comment, knowing that to do so would only goad Jethro further. "I'm glad it's working well, for both of them. I'll admit I like seeing Timothy around again, and I'm quite pleased with how he seems to be adjusting. I was greatly concerned in the beginning. His depression and isolation seemed to be quite strong."

"Tim's stronger than he knows. He's young enough and smart enough to adapt."

"Yes," Ducky agreed, "it would seem he is. I thought you said he was going to need to be carried down." He nodded toward the gathering area in the distance, where Tim could be faintly seen, moving slowly down a barely existent trail etched into the steep hill, alone. Tony stood the top of the hill, gesturing wildly, presumably arguing with Tim.

Gibbs turned, following Ducky's gaze, and then broke suddenly into a run. "I'm going to kill him," he growled, "if he doesn't break his fool neck first. Of all the damned idiotic stunts…"

"Now, Jethro," Ducky said, following close behind, "I hardly think homicide is necessary."

"Maybe not," Gibbs muttered, never breaking his stride, "but I'm still going to make sure he won't sit for a week."

"Jethro," Ducky replied, torn between sympathy and mild amusement, "I know that you perhaps meant that just as an expression, but will that not be a bit difficult, given Timothy's present condition."

Gibbs didn't stop, but there was a noticeable hitch in his stride. When he turned back, he was wide-eyed and utterly flabbergasted. "Oh, god, Duck, I forgot… I can't… What was I thinking?"

"You were thinking that the lad was being stubborn and reckless and doubtless deserved a good thrashing," Ducky replied. "And you weren't wrong."

"Maybe not," Gibbs said, "but there's not a lot I can do about that now, is there? Christ, I can't believe I forgot."

"In this case," Ducky commented. "I'd say forgetting is a very good sign. It means you're adjusting, that you see Timothy as himself without regards to the wheelchair. As for the other, Timothy's disability doesn't exempt him from needing discipline nor does it render him incapable of receiving it. There are other ways."

"Yeah," Gibbs said, distracted. They had reached the top of the trail, though truly calling it a trail was something of an exaggeration. The narrow path was more like a series of ruts, barely visible in the overgrown grass. "Stop right there, McGee," Gibbs yelled. "I'm coming down." Turning to Tony, who had sidled up beside him and immediately started in about how he had tried to stop McGee, he said, "with me, DiNozzo" and made his way down the narrow path as quickly as he dared.


	8. Chapter 7

Tim saw them coming, but rather than stopping, as Gibbs had said, he continued down the path. After all, he was more than halfway down, and in all likelihood, by the time Gibbs and Tony caught up with him he would already be at the bottom. He was going to get yelled at either way, but at least he would be saved from further embarrassment of being carried down the trail like a child. At least, that was his plan. Except, he hadn't planned on his front left tire getting stop in a particularly deep rut and refusing to budge. Faced with the choice between crawling down his arms dragging his legs behind him and waiting for help, he waited.

The problem with waiting, he realized all of 2 seconds later, was that it gave the logical part of his brain time to catch up with the stubbornly independent part, and once it did, he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Gibbs was going to kill him. What the hell had he been thinking? He'd deliberately disobeyed Gibbs, to his face and in public no less. He was in so much trouble. The brief few moments of his escape, he'd been secure in the knowledge that the worst he would get was a lecture. After all, Gibbs couldn't spank him anymore - that was possibly the only small compensation in this whole horrible mess - but now he felt he had clearly been deluded. He might be able to escape a sore butt, but now that his mind was functioning properly, it was clear that there were any number of other ways that Gibbs could make his life miserable. At this rate, he'd be lucky to work his way out of the cold files sometime next year. That is, if the formidable former Gunny didn't think of something even more diabolical, like setting him to work scrubbing the walls of the men's locker room with a toothbrush. Tim paled even further as the memory of his the threat from that night in his apartment came back in a vivid rush, and he prayed to all he held holy that Gibbs wouldn't park him in a corner of the squad room like a naughty five-year-old.

"Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?" Gibbs demanded, bringing an abrupt halt to Tim's thoughts.

"Going to the parking lot," he replied. He'd meant to be calm and matter-of-fact, but it came out sounding like a defiant little boy, even to his own ears.

"And I told you we would help," Gibbs railed.

"I didn't need help. I was doing fine on my own. I can do things myself, you know, "Tim countered.

"Can you now?" Gibbs said, eyeing the clearly stuck wheelchair doubtfully.

Tim blushed. There was nothing he could say to that. They could all see he couldn't get out of this one alone. Well, he supposed he could, but it would be far more difficult than necessary.

"What if you had fallen?" Gibbs pressed, unwilling to let this go.

Tim shrugged. "I've fallen before; I lived. I'm not fragile you know."

"Dammit, Tim, I know that, but if you break your neck in some fool stunt like this, you could lose what independence you do have. Is that what you want?" Gibbs asked.

That took the wind out of his sails instantly. "No," Tim said quietly, blushing and feeling very much like a chastened child.

"Then stop being so damned stubborn and let us help you," Gibbs told him. Without waiting for Tim to agree, he nodded to Tony and the two of them took up positions on opposite sides of Tim and took hold of the chair. As they knelt to lift, Gibbs said quietly into Tim's ear. "This discussion isn't over. Your safety isn't negotiable. Ever."

Suddenly, being carried down wasn't the foremost thing on Tim's mind. The anxiety that exploded in his chest made that pale in comparison. He was dead, so dead. Or at the very least he might wish he was by the time Gibbs was done. He stifled a groan and willed himself not to throw up. Tony would never let him live it down if he did.

After that, the bombing drill seemed both interminably long and unnervingly short—at the same time. Part of him just wanted it to be over so he could put this whole sorry mess behind him. The other part just wanted to avoid Gibbs for as long as humanly possible. Deep down, though he'd never admit it, there was a part of him that thought it would almost be easier if he could be spanked. Not that he wanted to be spanked—not by any means—but at least then he'd know what to expect. As it was, he had no idea what to expect, and his imagination was coming up with far too many possibilities, each one more horrible than the last.

All too soon, the building had been cleared, and Tim found himself following the crowd back into the squad room. He made a quick detour by his desk to shoot off an email confirming the details they'd agreed upon for the undercover op before heading back to MTAC, but Gibbs stopped him. "Hold it right there, McGee. You're not going anywhere."

"I was just going to finish up in MTAC, Boss," Tim told him.

"Not right now, you're not," Gibbs said. "You're going to stay right there till I get back."

"But, Boss, it'll only take a minute," Tim began.

Gibbs cut him off by bringing both hands down hard on Tim's desk and leaning down so they were nearly nose to nose. "Do I need to find a corner, Timothy?" he asked, dangerously quiet.

"No, sir," Tim answered quietly.

"Then park your ass behind this desk and do not move till I come back." Without waiting for a reply, Gibbs crossed the room and stepped into the elevator.

Tim dropped his head into his hands. He'd just been put in time out like a naughty child, and at his own desk no less. Just how much more humiliating could it get? He thought again of Gibbs' corner threat. On second thought, he didn't want to know.


	9. Chapter 8

Gibbs strode into autopsy with a look of ferocious determination on his face that Ducky knew well. He had seen it many times before in the years he had worked with Jethro. Usually, it came in the middle of a case, one of those cases, the ones that grabbed Jethro by the heart and turned him into a growling, snarling bear that drove them all to distraction. This time, however, was different. This time he had a strong suspicion that look had nothing to do with a case and everything to do with a certain recalcitrant young agent.

Gathering up some tissue samples he had set aside for testing, he dispatched Mr. Palmer off to deliver them to Abby with instructions for him to stay and help with testing. Then, he strode over to his desk and reached for his teapot, smiling as he removed the cozy and found it still warm. Despite spending a great part of his adult life in America, he had never understood the Americans fondness for coffee. And he didn't even like to think about the swill that passed for tea in the cafeteria. Pond slime would be a more apt description. The very thought made him shudder. He had long since given up and taken to brewing his own by means of a teapot and hotplate. "Tea, Jethro?" he offered, glancing back at Gibbs and gesturing toward the pot.

Gibbs lifted an eyebrow and raised the coffee cup he was holding. "Think I need something stronger than tea, Duck," he replied.

Ducky poured his own cup, settled back against his desk, and regarded his friend. "Am I correct in assuming that young Timothy is the source of your current distress?"

"Ya think?" Gibbs quipped, deadpan.

"Yes, well, I might not be an investigator, but even a lowly medical examiner such as I has some powers of deduction," Ducky replied, matching Gibbs tone with his own. "I take it this has something to do with his - shall we say - adventure outside?"

"I just don't know what to do with him anymore," Gibbs said, running a hand over his head and beginning to pace. "He knows better than to pull a stupid stunt like that. You know me, Duck, I'll take necessary risks whenever I need to, even be reckless some would say, but I never ever allow my people to take unnecessary risks with their safety. Tim knows that."

"Yes," Ducky agreed quietly, "he does. So what are you going to do about it?"

"That's just it," Gibbs said. "I don't know. My usual methods don't really work for him anymore. And yes, I know I would be within my rights as his supervisor to file a formal reprimand for disobeying a direct order, but his status here isn't exactly solid right now. He's here because I demanded that he be, but the powers that be could very well use that as a means to send him packing. There's no way I'd ever chance doing that to him. Besides, you know how I feel about paper punishments."

Ducky nodded. Gibbs disdain for the conventional workplace discipline system was well known. What no one, save himself, Director Sheppard, and Gibbs' team knew was that, far from allowing his team to escape discipline, as many assumed, Gibbs preferred to handle it himself by the simple expedient of a sound spanking. "As I said before," Ducky commented, "there are other methods."

"Yeah, I know," Gibbs said doubtfully, "I could ground him or something. I've even threatened to send him to a corner a time or two, but I just don't see how that helps anything. Not for a kid like Tim. With him, that just gives him too much opportunity to think and worry and wallow in guilt. It might be a deterrent, but I'm not sure that's worth it. You said yourself isolation isn't what he needs."

"And it's not," Ducky told him, "nor was it what I meant by other methods."

Gibbs stopped pacing and turned to stare at him, clearly confused. "It wasn't?"

"Not at all." Ducky set down his teacup. "Perhaps you're not aware, but when I was a lad, it wasn't uncommon for a youngster who got a bit too mischievous or rambunctious in school to find himself called to the front of the class for a strapping…"

"Well, yeah, Duck," Gibbs broke in, "it was different in our day. I had a run-in with a teacher's paddle a time or two myself. What's that got to do with Tim?"

"On the hand, Jethro," Ducky finished, looking slightly exasperated. He held out his hand, palm up, in illustration. "It was quite common for children in primary school."

Gibbs looked down at his own palm, curling and uncurling his fingers reflexively. He wasn't unfamiliar with the concept, of course, though he tended to associate the method with stories he had heard growing up of ruler-wielding nuns, but it wasn't one he'd ever considered using himself. "Didn't they stop that because it was dangerous, too many bones and nerves and whatnot?"

"It's true the hand can be delicate," Ducky conceded, "and like all corporal punishment, this has the potential to be abused, but I hardly think you're planning to beat the lad."

Gibbs looked positively scandalized. "Of course not."

"Well, then, there shouldn't be a problem," Ducky continued.

Gibbs studied him for a long moment, considering. It would solve the problem rather neatly, allowing him to give Tim the spanking he deserved without regard to his paralysis. And like his traditional method, it had the benefit of being sharp and efficient, of clearing the air and resolving the issue quickly without room for lingering recriminations or guilt. Still, a part of him held back, hesitant. He'd never hesitated in spanking his agents before. It'd just seemed natural, an accepted part of life. After all, he'd been on the receiving end himself for most of his life, at home, at school, in the Marines. It'd just seemed natural to carry it over into his own dealings with young Marines and later young agents. But this didn't feel natural. This felt different-foreign.

"Show me," he said finally, coming to an abrupt, instinctive decision, much like those intuitive case leaps that had made him famous for his gut. Before Ducky could refuse, he removed his own belt and pressed it into Ducky's hand.

Surprisingly, Ducky's first response wasn't outright refusal. Instead, he seemed to reach new heights of exasperation. "Honestly, Jethro, one would think you didn't trust me. Surely you don't think I would suggest something that would actually be harmful. I happen to take the Hippocratic Oath very seriously. 'First do no harm' means exactly that—Do. No. Harm. I realize there is some pain involved, but that does not always equate with harm as you of all people should know."

"Christ, Duck, of course I know that," Gibbs flared. "Do ya think I'd be asking you to do it to me otherwise?"

"Why are you asking?" Ducky wanted to know. "Surely you don't think Timothy is too fragile to handle a punishment that was used routinely on generations of schoolchildren?"

"No, of course not." Gibbs started pacing again, looking surprisingly awkward and sheepish. "It's just, it's a rule…"

Ducky chuckled. "Ah, I see. Would that be number 52?"

"Not exactly," Gibbs said. "It's more an unwritten rule. I've always told them you learn by doing."

"If that's the case," Ducky countered. "Wouldn't you need to learn this by actually dealing with Timothy rather than having me demonstrate?"

"Maybe," Gibbs conceded, "but I also never expect them to do something I haven't done or wouldn't do myself." He saw it the moment the understanding dawned in Ducky's eyes, and he knew, right then, that it was settled. Ducky sighed, but he didn't argue. He simply unfolded the belt, tucked the buckle into his palm and wound the strap around his hand until he was left with a short, workable length of leather some 6-8 inches long. Gibbs held out his left hand, palm up, without prompting and was surprised to realize that he felt nervous. He swallowed hard and tried to convince himself that the feeling was completely unfounded. He wasn't some schoolboy. His palms were hard as rocks from years of working wood by hand. He probably wouldn't even feel it. Almost before he could finish the thought, Ducky brought the strap down with a resounding crack, spreading a line of fire across his hand that made the foolishness of that thought perfectly clear. Swearing vehemently, he jerked his hand back, shaking it in a purely instinctive if ineffectual effort to relieve the sting. Ducky, damn him, was shaking with laughter and not even bothering to try to hide it.

"Some bedside manner there, Duck," Gibbs groused. "You could at least pretend to be sympathetic."

Ducky shrugged, unrepentant. "You could have taken my word for it."

Gibbs nodded, taking his belt back from Ducky and threading it back on, but truthfully he knew he couldn't have. He could have never disciplined in this way without having first experienced it himself. He'd have felt like the worst kind of fraud.

"Satisfied?" Ducky asked.

"Yeah, Duck," Gibbs replied. "I think I am." He turned and strode out the sliding doors wearing the same look of determination he'd had when he came in them.

Ducky watched him go, shaking his head with a combination of quiet amusement and bafflement, wondering if the younger agents had any idea just how seriously Jethro took his role as their mentor/surrogate father. He suspected they didn't have a clue. Turning away, he began moving around and making up a small icepack. He suspected Timothy would need it later.


	10. Chapter 9

**Contains disciplinary spanking of an adult. Don't like; hit the back button now.**

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**"With me, McGee," Gibbs commanded, coming off the elevator and striding through the bullpen.

"On your six, Boss," Tim replied, moving out from behind his desk and falling in line behind Gibbs. He followed Gibbs deep into the labyrinthine maze of hallways that made up the inner workings of the NCIS complex. At first, he simply followed, so use to following Gibb's commands that he didn't bother to question, but it wasn't long before his natural curiosity began to catch up. Where were they going? And then, suddenly, he realized exactly where they were headed and anxiety hit him with the force of an oncoming locomotive. Deep in the complex, there was an abandoned conference room that had years ago been turned into a storage room and was largely forgotten by everyone save the janitorial staff – and Gibbs. He tended to regard it as something like his private office, even more private than his other 'office' in the elevator, or rather, as Tim tended to think of it, as his punishment room. It was where he brought them when he needed to deal with discipline of the more private and physical variety, and it was where he was taking Tim now.

As if confirming Tim's suspicion, Gibbs stopped suddenly in front of a door, opened it, and then stepped aside to allow Tim to enter.

"Um, Boss, what are we doing here?" he asked uncertainly, moving inside in response to the unspoken command despite himself.

Gibbs didn't answer, simply raised an eyebrow as if to say 'what do you think?'.

"I mean, I know what we usually do here, but what are we doing now? It's not like you can spank me anymore. Well, I guess you could that it seems beside the point considering I couldn't feel it since I can't feel my ass." He realized suddenly that he was rattling and forcefully clamped his mouth shut.

"You agree you deserve a spanking then?" Gibbs asked, almost conversationally, stepping in and closing the door.

Tim stared at him, open-mouthed, dimly aware that he was gaping like a landed fish, but powerless to stop it. "What? No… I mean, I know I technically disobeyed, but come on, Boss, I really was fine."

Gibbs moved over to the rickety conference table, unfolding a metal folding chair he found by the wall and taking a seat so that they were eye to eye. "So it's okay to disobey a direct order, ignore the chain of command, and put your safety at risk as long as you're really fine?" The question was quiet, so soft it was almost a whisper, yet all of the more devastating for its lack of volume.

Tim shifted uncomfortably. "No, but I'm not helpless either, dammit."

"Do you honestly think I'd have brought you back here if I thought you were?" Gibbs asked hotly. "Don't be stupid, Tim. I know you're not helpless, or fragile, and believe it or not, I understand your need to be independent, but your safety is nonnegotiable. It always has been; it always will be, and if that means you have to suffer a little embarrassment in the process, then you will damn well suck it up and do it."

"Yes, sir." The response was pure instinct, born from both his Navy childhood and his automatic acceptance of Gibbs' authority but sincere nonetheless.

"Good," Gibbs said, nodding. "Then let's get this over with."

"What over with?" Tim asked, completely confused and inexplicably very nervous. "I screwed up. I get that, but…" He gestured wordlessly, taking in his legs, his wheelchair, everything. "The usual methods don't exactly apply."

"No?" Gibbs said lightly. "It seems to me the usual methods apply as much as ever. You screw up; you get spanked, just like always. Just this time, it won't be on your butt.

"Then what… How?" Tim stammered.

In reply, Gibbs laid his hand on the table beside them, palm up, the vivid mark from the strap still clearly visible. Tim looked slowly from Gibb's hand to his own, the implications dawning on him with a mixture of shock and horror.

"No," he said faintly, shaking his head. Unconsciously, he curled his fingers inward, protecting the sensitive palm.

"Okay." Gibbs stood, spreading his hands in a clear gesture of concession. "See me before you leave this afternoon. I'll have the letter and paperwork ready for you to sign."

"Letter?" Tim repeated, questioning.

"Ifwe're not going to handle it this way, then I'll follow the official channels, which means putting a letter reprimand in your personnel file."

Had it come from anyone else, Tim might've thought that answer to be a thinly veiled threat, but coming from Gibbs, it seemed like nothing of the sort. It was simply a matter of fact statement of the facts of the situation. Ironically, it was that very matter of fact nature that unnerved him. Had it been a threat, he would've been able to muster up righteous anger, but as it was, there was nothing to be angry about. When Gibbs put it like that, logically at least, he could see it as a fairly simple choice. Nevertheless, it wasn't a choice he wanted to make.

"Come on, Boss, it wasn't like it was a real order. I mean, we weren't out in the field or anything," Tim protested.

"You don't get to make that choice, McGee," Gibbs said. "That's the point of the chain of command. You don't get to decide what constitutes a real order or not. You do as you're told, when you're told, period. And when you don't, there are consequences. I won't force you to take my informal consequences – I never have, and I never will – but there will be consequences, one way or the other."

"But it's not fair," Tim countered.

"What's not?" Gibbs questioned.

"It's not a real choice," Tim said petulantly. "I've never gotten reprimand letter before, but I don't want – I mean – that other thing you said isn't fair either."

"No?" Gibbs asked. "Why not?"

"Because," Tim said, in a tone that suggested it should be obvious, "it hurts, and everyone will be able to see my hand so it's not really private, not like before. And haven't you always said that punishment should be private? Besides, isn't that like British or something, it's un-American Boss."

"It was Ducky's idea," Gibbs admitted. Though he was outwardly calm, inwardly, it was only Gibbs's years of undercover work that kept him from laughing. Though he doubted Tim realized it and he knew for certain Tim would never admit it even if he did, at that moment, Tim sounded like nothing so much as an ill-tempered eight-year-old. It was clear that he had no real problem with Gibbs's discipline. He simply didn't want to be spanked.

"Ducky knows?" Tim asked, aghast.

"Of course he knows, McGee," Gibbs told him. "Do you really think I would try this without making sure it was safe first? I'm not trying to do damage, just reinforce the lesson. Besides, Ducky will keep this between us; he always has before, hasn't he?"

"You mean he knew?" Tim sputtered. "He knows?"

"Ducky knew about my methods before you knew Tim," Gibbs replied. "I've known him for years, remember? Now, what's it going to be? My way or the official way."

None of the above, Tim thought miserably. Both choices seemed equally terrible. On the one hand, although no one had so much as hinted at the possibility, Tim new perfectly well that someone, at some point, could see a letter of reprimand as all the proof they needed to end his already fragile position at NCIS. Yes, he knew the law said he couldn't be fired because of his disability. They have educated them on that really well during his time in rehab. However, he also knew that there were plenty of people who, though they were politically savvy enough never to say to his face, who were extremely skeptical of his current position. To his knowledge, he was the only agent with a physical disability on a major case team, and he was well aware of just how quickly that could change. Any reason they could find to use to build a legitimate case for termination would simply add fuel to the skeptic's fire, and having his first and only formal letter of reprimand filed so soon after his return would certainly do that.

On the other hand, he just flat out didn't want to face the alternative. Being strapped like that would hurt like blazes. He was familiar enough with just exactly what a belt felt like on his backside that he didn't even want to think about what it would feel like on his palm. And his palm was just too visible. It was bad enough trying to hide the evidence of a sore bottom, and if the mark on Gibbs hand was anything to go by, hiding that would be all but impossible. He'd never hear the end of it if Tony found out. That is, if he didn't die of embarrassment from the start.

Yet, thinking of it like that, it was clear there was only one real choice, however unpleasant that choice might be.

"Well?" Gibbs asked, not pressing but not willing to let him get away with hedging either.

"Yours," Tim said quietly, taking a deep breath to steady himself, still not quite believing how he'd gotten himself into this mess.

Gibbs nodded. He removed his belt once more and wrapped it around his hand in the same manner Ducky had earlier in his lab. "Hold out your hand," he told Tim, lacing the words with just enough command to make the younger man obey without thought. The way he figured it, the less time McGee had to overthink this, the better.

Automatically, Tim put out his left hand, palm up.

Gibbs sighed. "Your other hand, Tim. You're left-handed."

"Oh," Tim said quietly. He dropped his left hand and, hesitantly, put out his right. It dawned on him then, with sudden horror, that for the first time, he was not only going to have to face Gibbs while he was being spanked but that he was going to be able to watch each stroke as it fell. He fought down the waves of panic. No, this wasn't going to work. He couldn't –

Before he could finish the thought, Gibbs brought the strap down hard on his palm and all panic fled, absorbed in the fiery stripe that bloomed across his palm. He jerked his hand back without thinking, cradling it protectively between his right arm and his body.

Gibbs didn't say anything, just watched, waiting expectantly. After a long moment, he said finally, "Hand out Tim. We're not done yet."

Tim goggled at him. There was more. He couldn't be serious. Except the look on Gibbs face made it perfectly clear that Gibbs was indeed serious, very serious. Finally, Tim was able to force himself to put his hand out again. Gibbs strapped him four more times before he finally stopped. Miraculously, Tim managed not to pull his hand back again, but by the last, he couldn't stop himself from crying out, and though they hadn't fallen, he could feel tears standing in his eyes.

Gibbs quietly replaced his belt while Tim tried to surreptitiously wipe his eyes. "Sorry Boss," Tim said softly.

Gibbs nodded and reached out to clasp him comfortingly on the shoulder. "Get yourself together and go let Ducky check your hand before you come back to the squad room."

Blanching at the thought of facing Ducky, Tim said, "It's fine, Boss. I mean, it hurts, but I don't need medical attention or anything."

"Timothy…" Gibbs said warningly, reminding Tim belatedly that this whole thing had started over not doing what he was told.

"Yes, sir," he said quickly.

Gibbs nodded, smothering a grin as he stepped out of the door and closed it behind him.

* * *

**A/n 2: Before anyone emails me that it's unfair for Tim to be strapped on his hands because of pushing his chair, I consider it pretty equivalent to having to go back to work and sit on a sore backside, which Gibbs expects them all to do. Tim is no exception.**


	11. Chapter 10

For all his reluctance to visit Ducky, in the end, Tim was glad he did. He had been examined, clucked over and scolded to within an inch of his life, but he felt better for it. Though Gibbs had come nowhere close to breaking the skin, Ducky had insisted on treating his palm with ice and a mild antibiotic cream. The ice had numbed the fire a little, but Ducky had flatly refused to give him any sort of pain killer. In fact, in retrospect, Tim realized that even mentioning such a thing had been a bad idea. Ducky had immediately launched into a blistering scolding, railing that Tim had behaved like a reckless schoolboy and therefore deserved every bit of the thrashing he had gotten. By the end, Tim's face was burning nearly as much as his palm; he was squirming like the schoolboy Ducky was accusing him of behaving like, and he was reduced to responding with no more than 'yes sir' and 'no sir'. It wasn't a title he ever recalled using with Ducky before, save perhaps in the early days when everyone was sir because he was terrified of making some unintentional breach of protocol, but today, with Ducky sounding like a stern grandfather, there was simply nothing else to say.

When he had finally been able to escape, he'd headed back for the squad room, but with his sore hand, the trip had been far slower than normal. He was rapidly beginning to re-assess his earlier thought that he was safe from a sore butt. Trying to maneuver his chair with a sore hand was proving to be remarkably similar to trying to work sitting on a sore backside. When the elevator dinged to a stop at the squad room, he took a deep breath and braced himself. He had to make it to his desk without either Tony or Maynard suspecting anything was wrong. Tony would know and never let him live it down. Derek wouldn't understand and would probably have a nervous breakdown. No, he'd just have to suck it up and not let anyone know.

Tony looked up as Tim exited the elevator. Being called off alone with the Boss like that was never a good thing. He'd assumed Boss had drug him off to give him an earful about taking off earlier. What the hell had Probie been thinking? Disobeying the boss like that was tantamount to signing a death wish. Or at the very least an I-don't-want-to-sit-for-a-week wish. He'd be lucky if the boss didn't tear strips off his ass. At least figuratively, if not literally.

Tony watched Tim carefully as he made his way across to his desk. Probie didn't seem too much the worse for wear. He was a little subdued, his face set in grim, determined lines, but that wasn't really that unusual. Still, something was a little off, not so much as to be obvious, but Tony was a cop and a damned good one at that. He noticed things, and every instinct he had told him something was wrong. He settled back in his chair, propped his feet up on his desk, and picked up a case file, pretending to be reading and surreptitiously watching his teammate from behind it.

Was it his imagination, or was Tim slightly favoring his right hand? That didn't make sense. Tim was left handed but tended to use both hands comfortably except that he both wrote and shot exclusively with the left. Why would he be favoring his right side? He hadn't hurt it outside, had he? No, that couldn't be right. Boss would have sent him immediately to see Ducky if he had, not dragged him off to parts unknown. Tony risked a glance over at Tim again. Probie was clacking away on his computer, and at first glance, Tony almost decided he must have been wrong. Until he realized Tim was typing one-handed, with his left hand. His right hand was cradled almost protectively in his lap. Hmmm… This required further investigation. If Probie had hurt himself and was hiding it, Boss would kill him for sure.

"Hey, Probie," he called nonchalantly, swinging his legs down and striding over to Tim's desk, "can you hand me the Rodman file?" As Tony had expected, Tim reached instinctively to grab the file with his right hand, never taking his eyes off the screen. Tim grabbed the file, reached back to pass it to Tony, and almost immediately, dropped it, barely suppressing a yelp. He retrieved the file – left-handed this time – thrust it at Tony, and quickly dropped his right hand back into his lap. But for all his effort, it wasn't quick enough to keep Tony from seeing his reddened palm, crossed with stripes. Seeing it, Tony had a flash of memory of his own hand, knuckles vividly red and sore, after a run in with his piano teacher and her ruler. If he didn't know better, he'd think…

He broke off abruptly when he realized Tim was staring at him in utter horror, looking frantically between him and Maynard, who had come running when he heard Tim drop the folder. It dawned on Tony then that he must have spoken aloud, and he immediately backed off knowing that this wasn't a subject Tim would want to discuss with the Junior Probie around. But it was too late. Maynard had seen Tim's hand.

Maynard gasped audibly, eyes impossibly wide. "Agent McGee, what happened to your hand?"

"It's nothing," Tim muttered, dropping his hand back into his lap.

Maynard clearly wasn't buying it. "With all due respect, sir, I mean, Agent McGee, that is not nothing," he stammered, vibrating with nervous energy. "Did you hurt yourself? Does Agent Gibbs know? Have you seen Dr. Mallard?"

"I'm fine, Derek, really," Tim said again. "I've just come from seeing Ducky, and yes, Gibbs knows all about it."

If Tony had not already been convinced of just what happened to Tim's hand, that alone would have told him all he needed to know. Maynard, on the other hand, was far from convinced.

"But how, who, what happened?" Maynard spluttered.

"I just…I'm mean…it's nothing," Tim repeated, stuttering nearly as much as Maynard.

"It is not nothing," Maynard insisted. "You're injured."

"I am not injured," Tim retorted through clenched teeth. "I'm fine."

"You most certainly are not," Maynard countered, sounding amusingly like an affronted mother hen. "You are clearly injured. You should let Agent Gibbs know."

Tony watched them silently, feeling like a spectator at some sort of demented tennis match. Part of him was both amused at Maynard's protectiveness and amazed that the young agent, who Tony generally characterized as being afraid of his own shadow, had the guts to stand up to Tim. The other part was fighting a growing headache and hoping these two would settle it before he had to intervene just to keep them from sputtering themselves to death.

"I told you," Tim repeated, clearly nearing the end of his patience, "Gibbs already knows."

"How?" Maynard asked warily, obviously thinking that Tim was just blowing him off.

"Because he did it, ok," Tim blurted. "Gibbs knows because he did it."

For a long moment, the two men just stared at one another. Maynard's mouth was moving but no sound came out. All the other sounds in the room seemed to have melted away, save for the sound of Tim's harsh, labored breathing. Tony took this as his cue to intervene. Rather than speaking, he simply stepped up, grabbed Maynard firmly by the scruff of the neck, and hauled him bodily into the elevator. A moment later, seeing that Tim hadn't followed, as he'd expected, but was still gaping at him, unmoving, he called back, "Let's go, Probie, Junior is your kid, not mine. This is your job, not mine. Move your ass!"

Tim was stunned into obedience. Tony held the door until Tim joined them then let the door close behind him and flipped the emergency switch. The elevator plunged into murky semi-darkness.

"Boss'll kill you if he finds out you've taken over his office," Tim told him.

"You really want to have this conversation in public?" Tony questioned. "Besides, I'm not exactly alone in here, McGenius."

Tim seemed to rethink his position then and fell silent. At the same time, Maynard seemed to find his voice.

"Agent Gibbs did that?" he bellowed, clearly shocked. "He hurt you!"

"No," Tim said automatically. "I mean, yes, but not really…I mean, yes, it hurts, but he hasn't hurt me, not really hurt me..." He broke off, frustrated.

Maynard shot him a skeptical look. "No?" he asked, with a pointed glance at Tim's hand. "Then what do you call that?"

Tim turned away, blushing. Tony sighed, shifting restlessly. "Look, man," Tony began, mentally damning Tim for all he was worth for putting him in this position. "Gibbs hasn't hurt him. Boss hasn't done anything to Probie that he hasn't done to all of us."

Maynard turned to Tony, wild-eyed with shock and nervousness. "He hurts you all?" He took a step, vibrating with energy. If there had been room, he would have been pacing, but he was prevented by the cramped conditions in the elevator. "You have got to be kidding me. You're telling me that Agent Gibbs_ beats_ all of you?"

"No," both Tim and Tony said almost simultaneously. Tony ran a hand across the back of his neck, regrouped, and tried again. "Did your parents ever spank you as a kid?"

Maynard shot hit him a startled look. "Well, yeah, a few times, but I was a kid. You're not a kid." He looked to Tim, taking in both men. "Neither of you."

"No," Tony agreed, "we're not, but that's how it works for us. Gibbs is like a dad. When we screw up, he punishes us, his way, and it's over."

"But that's…" Maynard began. He stopped and trailed off again, shaking his head against the sheer implausibility of it all.

"I know," Tim spoke up quietly. "It's crazy. It's so against regs that it's hard to even fathom. I felt the same way at first, but in the end, I chose it."

"Chose it?" Maynard echoed, incredulous. "Why would you ever choose it?"

Tim shrugged. "It's hard to explain it to someone who's never been there, Derek. It was right. You never know, one day it might me for you too."

Maynard gave a strangled sound, nearly choking on his own panic. "Me?" he squeaked. "Agent Gibbs might… He'd expect…" He broke off with a startled yelp as Tony reached out and slapped him hard on the back of his head.

"What part of choice don't you understand, Junior?" Tony asked. "It's not like anybody is going to force you. Or McGee."

Maynard looked to McGee, hesitant, questioning. "He's right, Derek," McGee confirmed. "This was my choice."

"Ok," Maynard said. "I don't get it but ok, but I'm telling you now, it will never be mine."

"It doesn't have to be," Tim replied. "All I'm asking is that you respect mine. Ours," he amended with a look at Tony.

Maynard nodded and started to speak, but whatever he was about to say was drowned out by a distinctive and familiar roar.

"Where the hell is my team?" Gibbs bellowed. "DiNozzo!"

"Duty calls," Tony said with a grin. He reached over, disengaged the emergency switch, and pressed the open button. The car flooded with light and the doors opened. "On your six, Boss," he called, striding over in Gibbs's direction.

Tim glanced over at Maynard one last time; then, satisfied the younger agent was ok, followed suit.


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: The usual disclaimers apply. Not mine; never will be. Contains spanking. If you don't like that, don't read it, but if that's the case, what in the world are you doing reading my stories in the first place? :-) **

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The day had turned so frantically busy that Tim had barely gotten a chance to think again until he got home that evening. A weapons shipment at a base in Argentina had been robbed—the third such robbery in as many months—and he had spent the rest of the day running MTAC conferences between the director and the various parties involved while they planned an undercover operation. Petty Officer Jamison, the current MTAC technician, could have handled them, he was sure, but lately both the director and Gibbs had been calling on him a lot to handle the various communications needed for undercover missions. Today, those communications had kept him ridiculously busy until early evening.

Then, Ducky had insisted on bringing him home and regaling him with stories of his own experiences of being thrashed in grammar school. Tim was more than grateful for not having to limp his way to the subway with his still surprisingly sore hand, and he knew that Ducky meant the stories to be comforting, but frankly, Tim was rather horrified at the idea of anyone doing _this_ to children. By the time he finally made it home, he was exhausted, both inside and out, and his hand just freaking hurt.

He pushed inside, closing and locking the door as he went, tossed his keys on the counter, and headed for the freezer in search of an icepack. That done, he hunted down the sunburn cream he had learned to keep on hand for these post-spanking evenings. He'd almost thrown it away when he'd moved into his new apartment after rehab, thinking he wouldn't need it for that anymore. He'd changed his mind at the last minute when he'd remembered that the lack of feeling in his legs made them very vulnerable to sunburn. It was rare that he wore shorts even in the summer with the hours he worked, but he'd kept it, just in case. Rifling through the medicine cabinet for pain killer, he felt a twinge of guilt, remembering Ducky's insistence that he deserved what he got and flat refusal to give him any medicinal relief. The guilt was short lived, however, since Tim reasoned this was what he would have done in any case. Ice, sunburn cream, and pain killers had been his standard aftercare regimen since Gibbs had started spanking him.

In many ways, he thought, going back to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and down the pills, this was nothing new. It was business as usual. It was the same thing he had always done after Gibbs had punished him for some screwup or misbehavior. Since he had spent the last several months trying to get back to business as usual and convince everyone around him that he was capable of doing just that, the thought should have been comforting, and he supposed, deep down, it was. After all, Gibbs wasn't treating him any differently than he had done for years, and he certainly wasn't treating him as though he was so fragile he couldn't handle it, and though it was hard for him to admit it at the moment, there was a part of Tim that appreciated that.

The other part of him, though, wasn't anywhere near so magnanimous. His hand hurt – badly. And the loudest most vocal part of him was protesting that vehemently. It wasn't fair, dammit. He was paralyzed for crying out loud. He couldn't feel his butt. How could he possibly still get spanked?

A banging knock on the door jerked Tim out of his thoughts.

"Probie," Tony yelled through the door, "let me in. I've got food."

Tim sighed. He really wasn't in the mood for company, and he knew Tony. DiNozzo wasn't going away. Ignoring him was pointless; he just be there banging till midnight. Setting the icepack on the table, Tim moved to open the door, rolling his eyes. He had barely released the lock when Tony pushed his way in, bearing pizza and beer.

"I appreciate it, Tony," Tim said, "but I'm really not in the mood for company."

Tony moved past him as though he hadn't spoken, depositing the boxes he carried on the counter and flipping open the pizza box. "I got pepperoni," he told Tim, picking up a beer and offering a second one to Tim.

Deciding he was clearly fighting a lost cause, Tim took the beer and opened it. "You know the boss will kill us if we get called out and we've been drinking," he commented.

Tony shrugged. "It's one beer. I'll take my chances." Scooping up a slice of pizza, Tony slid a look at Tim's hand, still folded in his lap. "How's the hand?" he asked.

Tim looked away, blushing. "Okay," he muttered. Tony shot him a disbelieving look, snorting softly. "Sore," he admitted finally, reluctantly, "hurts like a son of a bitch."

"I bet," Tony said, "looks sore as hell. Boss's handiwork?"

Tim nodded. "He wasn't happy with what happened outside."

"No kidding," Tony replied dryly, "could've seen that coming." He picked up the second slice of pizza for himself. Then, realizing Tim wasn't eating, passed a slice over to him as well.

Tim took it and bit into it absently. "I didn't," he said quietly after a moment. Tony arched an eyebrow in question. "See it coming," Tim clarified. "I didn't think he would still punish me."

"I gotta admit his methods surprised me a little," Tony said lightly. "There wasn't a doubt in my mind he was going chew you out. You saw his face outside. We both know what that look means, but I didn't expect him to get physical."

"Me either," Tim said.

"It makes sense though, doesn't it?" Tony continued.

Tim gave him a puzzled look. "It does?"

Tony shook his head in amusement and batted Tim affectionately about the back of the head. "For someone so smart, you can sure be slow on the uptake, McGenius."

"What?" Tim said a little irritably.

"Do you remember when I first got out of the hospital after the plague?" Tony asked casually, plowing through another piece of pizza.

"Of course," Tim said drily. "It's not as if I could forget. First, you nearly died from the plague, of all things. Then you insisted on coming back early and nearly got yourself blown up."

"It wasn't that bad," Tony protested, grinning.

"Yes," Tim insisted, "it was." It had been a horrible time. Tim had rarely felt so scared or helpless in his life, sitting in the bullpen alone, trying desperately to concentrate on the case when all he could think about was that Tony was fighting for his life, and he was helpless to do anything about it. They'd been new to each other then, without the years of shared life and experiences that bound them now, but it had still been agonizing.

"Not one of my brighter moments, I'll give you that," Tony continued. His tone was light, almost teasing, the one that many would call silly or flippant, but his eyes were steady, maybe even a little nervous. He picked a pepperoni from his pizza and ate it, chasing it down with beer, then went on. "You know Gibbs spanked me for it."

Tim froze, half-eaten slice of pizza hovering in the air, and stared. After a moment, he slowly and deliberately set the pizza down and picked up his beer, downing a good portion of it before he seemed to find his voice. "He did what?"

"He busted my ass," Tony said bluntly. "Come on, Probie, don't look so shocked. It's not as if we both don't know how it works. Hell, we managed to explain it to Jr. didn't we?"

Tim groaned. "Don't remind me. Still, Tony, you'd nearly died. How could he…"

"That's exactly why he did," Tony said softly.

* * *

It had been a horrible day. By the time Tony made it home, every bone in his body ached. He limped in the door, his lungs aching and sitting like a lead in his chest, wanting nothing more than food and a bed and maybe a shower in between if he could manage it without falling over. He glanced longingly at the sofa and contemplated just sprawling out on it, but he was afraid if he did, he would never get back up and he desperately needed food. He made his way to the kitchen on autopilot and removed a can of chicken soup from the cabinet. He opened the can, plopped the soup into a pot, added water, and set the pot on the stove to heat, stirring half-heartedly as he slumped against the counter.

The sharp knock at the door caught him completely by surprise. _Who the hell was that?_ Whoever it was would just have to go away because he was in no mood to be sociable tonight. He was barely managing to stay on his feet.

"DiNozzo, it's me."

Gibbs' familiar bark had him moving automatically, unlocking and opening the door. "Boss, what are you doing here?" he asked, stepping back so Gibbs could enter. "Do we have a case?" Tony desperately hoped not. He was dead on his feet, and he'd be completely useless to an investigation, not that he would ever tell Gibbs that.

"No case," Gibbs said, stepping passed Tony into the living area. "We need to talk."

Talk? What could they possibly have to talk about that would bring Gibbs out at this hour? He had clearly been home since he'd shed his work clothes for jeans and a red hooded sweatshirt. Once Gibbs was home he was usually ensconced in the basement, and nothing short of a case or a nuclear blast would draw him out. This couldn't be good.

"About what?" Tony asked in what he hoped was a light tone. He moved back to the kitchen, and Gibbs followed, propping a hip on the counter and watching as Tony stirred the small pot and pulled it off the stove.

"Ignoring doctor's orders and coming back to work too soon, for a start," Gibbs replied.

Tony, who had been pulling down mugs from the cupboard, froze in mid-motion. That tone was never good. "Come on, Boss, I was going stir crazy. Maybe I pushed it a little, but I didn't mean to." He divided the soup into two mugs, added spoons and passed the second over to Gibbs, who accepted it with a nod of thanks.

"It's never ok to put yourself in danger," Gibbs said bluntly, carefully sipping soup.

Tony snorted. He knew it wasn't the brightest idea, but that statement was so ridiculous he couldn't help himself. "Boss, have you forgotten what we do for a living? We put ourselves in danger on a regular basis. It's part of the job description."

"Not unnecessary danger," Gibbs insisted. "Going into a dangerous situation, with a plan and proper backup, is part of the job description. Pushing your body beyond what it is ready for is another thing entirely, and you know it."

Tony ducked, stirring the soup listlessly. He didn't like the way this was going. It was beginning to seem like he was in big trouble, and that wasn't good at all. "I needed to do something," he said quietly.

"Then you tell me," Gibbs said, "and we work it out together. You could come back in stages, planned and supported, or I could've brought you files to work on from home. You didn't have to come back full out." Tony squirmed. He wanted to defend himself. It'd be impulsive maybe, but he'd meant well yet when Gibbs put it like that… He shifted again, feeling distinctly sheepish. Gibbs nodded at Tony's mug. "Eat that; don't just play in it," Gibbs said succinctly.

Tony bent his head and concentrated on the soup. He was starving. The warm soup was comforting, and it was far easier to eat than talk about what a knucklehead he'd been, in any case. Unfortunately, the food disappeared far too quickly. Tony dawdled as long as he dared, but after the third time he'd scraped the bottom of his cup, Gibbs took it from his hands. "I think you're done," he said quietly, depositing the cup along with his own in the sink before coming back and sitting back down across from Tony. "If it were just coming back too soon," Gibbs went on, "I couldn't let that go. I could even understand that, but then, there was the bomb. That won't ever be acceptable. Any time; any place."

"Come on, Boss," Tony protested. "There's no way I could have known that bomb was there. You can't hold that against me; it's not fair." He was aware that he sounded uncomfortably like a whiny toddler, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Gibbs didn't argue. He peered at Tony over his folded arms and raised an eyebrow. "Why did you send Tim and Kate ahead of you?"

Tony shrugged. "I'm the senior field agent. It's my job to protect them."

"So lagging behind had nothing to do with trying to defuse the bomb?" Gibbs asked.

Tony's mind was screaming at him to deny it, deny everything, at all costs, but he couldn't flat-out lie to Gibbs. He looked away, fidgeting and feeling uncomfortably like a naughty child. "I didn't stay long," he admitted. "I ran as soon as I realized it was beyond my capability."

"It shouldn't have even been a consideration," Gibbs told him. "Dealing with bombs is the bomb squad's job not yours. Your only job is to get your ass out of the way and out of danger."

"You would've done it," Tony muttered.

"Only if I'd had no other choice," Gibbs said. "You had a choice. Trying to do it yourself was nothing but stupid bullheaded stubbornness."

"I was trying to help," Tony said, but it was a feeble excuse, and he knew it.

Gibbs stepped forward and took Tony's chin in his hands. "Getting yourself killed doesn't help anybody. Don't ever do that again."

"Got it, Boss," Tony said quietly.

Gibbs nodded then tilted his head toward the living room. "Okay then, let's go."

"Go?" Tony echoed, confused.

"Go deal with this," Gibbs replied. "Surely you don't think I can let something that dangerous go."

"Let it go?" Tony repeated. He was missing something. Clearly Gibbs thought that he understood what was going on, but the conversation might as well have been in Greek for all the sense it was making. Then, suddenly, understanding dawned and embarrassment flooded him. "You can't mean…"

"Yes, I can," Gibbs said firmly, "and I do. Let's go." Gibbs stood up and strode into the living room without looking back, clearly expecting to be obeyed.

For one brief moment, Tony entertained the thought of refusing to move. He knew Gibbs wouldn't force if he physically refused to cooperate, but he couldn't do it. Obedience born both of long habit and tremendous respect for the man who, even if he never acknowledged it, had become less his boss and more the father he had always wanted had him moving with only the slightest hesitation.

Gibbs was standing by the sofa when he entered, and Tony watched in horror as Gibbs reached into the front pocket of his sweatshirt and withdrew a small wooden paddle. Gibbs had clearly planned this and that thought made the whole ordeal somehow even more embarrassing. Tony swallowed hard and took a step toward the sofa, determined to man up and get this over with as quickly as possible. He expected Gibbs to bend him over the arm or the back as had happened a few times in the past. He wasn't at all prepared for what happened next. Rather than coming to stand behind him, Gibbs sat down on the sofa and gestured to him. For a moment, Tony simply stared, confused.

Gibbs gestured again, indicating his own knee. "Now," he said firmly.

The realization of what he wanted hit Tony with startling and horrifying clarity. He took a step back. "No, Boss, not that."

"Yes, Tony, this is personal, between us. This isn't a work reprimand, and I want you to remember that." Gibbs's reply was gentle but implacable.

"I get it, okay," Tony snapped. "I was stupid and I screwed up. You don't have to treat me like a naughty child to remind me. I won't forget. I'll even take the spanking, just not like this."

"Is that what you think this is about?" Gibbs asked. "You think I'm trying to humiliate you? Do you really think I would do that to you? Dammit, Tony, I already lost one child and came damn close to losing another a few weeks ago. I'm not about to let you play fast and loose with your life like that again. You matter, and if taking you over my knee like someone should have done years ago, is what it takes to remind you of that. Then that's what I mean to do. It was never about humiliating you."

Tony stared at him, wide-eyed, in stunned silence. Had Gibbs really just compared him to his child? Was it possible that Gibbs thought of him as more than just an agent, that he might even see him as a son?

Before he could wrap his mind around it, Gibbs clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot at his side. "Now, Anthony."

He moved, quickly, to stunned to do anything else. Gibbs raised an eyebrow and flicked a glance at Tony's pants. Tony swore softly but obeyed, unbuttoning them and pushing them down. Gibbs moved without comment, pulling Tony over his lap and holding him in place with an arm across his back. Tony felt him shift, raising the small paddle, and a moment later, it smacked into his ass, and all other concerns fled in short order. This particular paddle might be smaller than Gibbs' customary one, but that in no way negated its effectiveness. Frankly, it stung like a bitch, and its compact size meant that Gibbs could give more attention to small areas, like the juncture with his thighs. At this rate, Tony would be lucky to sit for a week. Despite his best efforts, Tony had never been stoic, and it wasn't long before twisting and pleading faded into all-out sobs. Gibbs was relentless, as always, and didn't stop until long past the point of anything bearable. Miserable as he was, it was sometime before Tony realized that he actually had stopped, that the paddle was gone, and Gibbs had a gentle hand on his back, absently, almost unconsciously, rubbing. Tony moved to stand but Gibbs wouldn't let him, holding him there until he'd calmed then gently lifting him to his feet. Gibbs moved away, studying the movies shelved on either side of the television set. Tony knew the older man had little interest in the films, but he was grateful for the few minutes of privacy it afforded him to fix his clothes and collect himself.

"I'm sorry," Tony said after a long moment, still more than a little shaky.

Gibbs turned and closed the gap between them. "I know," Gibbs said softly. He reached out and took Tony's chin in his hand. "I meant what I said. You're mine now, and you don't have permission to die. Got it?"

"Got it, Boss," Tony replied.

* * *

"And then he left," Tony told Tim.

McGee stared at him, clearly flabbergasted. "He really said that to you?" he asked.

Tony nodded. "Believe me, it stunned me as much as it does you. I knew I thought of Gibbs as a father figure. Hell, anybody with eyes can see that, but I had no idea that he felt the same. This was long before I realized just how much he thought of us all as family."

Tim shot him a skeptical look. "You, sure, everybody knows you're practically the son he never had, just like everybody knows Abby is a surrogate daughter, but not me, I'm just the resident geek."

Tony stared at him as if he'd suddenly grown an extra head. "You mean that, don't you?"

"Of course," Tim told him, "but it's okay. I have a dad, Tony. I respect Gibbs but I don't need him as a father."

"Maybe not," Tony replied, "but you've got him. Do you really think he would've gone to bat for you with the director if you were just another agent?"

Tim shrugged. "I'm smart. I'm good with computers. People value my skills. I'm used to it."

Tony shook his head. "Never let Gibbs hear you say that. He might take that as a sign that he hadn't done a good enough job and blister you again."

Tim flexed his hand, shuddering at the thought.

"If you're just an agent," Tony went on, "why didn't you find yourself in front of the director of this afternoon?"

"It's not as though I did anything wrong officially," Tim replied. "I participated in the bomb drill. She couldn't really reprimand me for the route I chose to take."

"And disobeying a direct order?" Tony asked.

"You know it wasn't a real order," Tim countered.

Tony raised eyebrow. "Since when do we get to make that distinction?" Tony asked. "You of all people know that. You probably have the regs and chain of command memorized."

Tim flushed self-consciously, knowing Tony was painfully close to the mark.

Tony paid him no mind. "If you were just an agent," he pressed, "why would Gibbs take the time to figure out a way to punish you safely, off the record, instead of making it official?"

"It was Ducky's idea," Tim said.

Tony laughed. "It would be," he said. "It's British." When Tim raised a questioning eyebrow, Tony continued, "I went to boarding school, McGee. I had schoolmates from all over the world, or at least who had parents from all over the world."

"He did it to Gibbs," Tim blurted, thinking aloud as the memory came back to him suddenly.

"He what?" Tony demanded.

"Gibbs had a mark on his palm," Tim explained. He turned his hand over, palm up. "Like mine. It must've been Ducky."

"Who else," Tony agreed. He fell silent for a moment, dumbfounded. Then, suddenly, he said, "Of course."

"What?" Tim asked.

"You learn by doing, Probie," Tony replied. "How many times the boss told us that? He couldn't do it to you until he'd done it himself. Given the way you feel right now, do you really think he would have put himself through that for just any agent?"

"Probably not," Tim agreed reluctantly.

"There's not probably to it," Tony said. "You're his kid, every bit as much as me or Abby. Get used to it." He stood and stretched, moving across the kitchen to deposit the debris of their dinner in the trash. "And now, it's time for all good little probies to go to bed, and I have a date with a hottie named Randi."

"Randi?" Tim wondered, following Tony to the door.

Tony grinned. "Met her on that coffee run for Gibbs this morning. See you in the morning, Mcwheelie."

Tim shut and locked the door behind him, shaking his head at the acquisition of yet another new nickname.


End file.
